The Ones We Leave Behind
by Brunette
Summary: Burns, Henderson, Dr. Chamberlain, Daniels and Beni bid goodbye to the people they didn't know they would never see again. Five deaths. Five moments. Five goodbyes in five shots. Rated for language/themes.
1. Burns

_**Author's Note.** So this is weird. I don't really write fanfiction anymore, and I still considered this account inactive. But this has been in my head for a while, and I was totally stumped on my original projects. And I figured it's better than not writing. So I wrote it, and went, what the hell? Post it. So here it is._

 _Big wave to anyone still around who read my other stuff! **Sarcastic Raccoon** , I've been following_ Seeking That Which Was Lost. _I just haven't stopped to review yet, because I kinda suck. But I'm going to sit down and do that soon._

 _ **Disclaimer.** The characters of _ The Mummy _are the property of Universal Studios. The characters of Mrs. Burns, Aunt Georgie, Rashid, Leila, Barbara Gibbons and Father Joseph are my own invention. Any resemblance they bear to other fictional characters or real people is purely coincidental._

* * *

 **Burns**

She has these sort of wide hands. She isn't a stout woman, particularly, or tall or mannish; he's never thought so. But when Burns sees his mother he thinks about her hands and the broad squareness of them. And how she's always, always tried to hide it.

Her nails are long and tapered, she says to elongate the finger. Bright pink. Her wedding ring was a marquis-cut diamond for the same reason. Something like five carats, not so enormous on her hand. She never takes it off because she's afraid someone will see the size of the band. Wide enough for a man, maybe. For some men, anyway.

And Burns never would have noticed. Her hands were soft when they touched his face. Wiped his little boy tears and tended his little boy bruises. Smelled always of rosewater or lavender or vanilla. He never would have noticed they were so big if she didn't fret over them. Twist them in her lap and settle them against her skirt and tuck them away when she can manage it.

She loves winter. She loves muffs.

And she frets about her hands, even though her more noticeable features are striking. She frets about her hands, one of two things he's known her to worry herself to tears over, his whole life. The other being—

"Are you sure you want to tag along, Bernie? I just don't know if it's something you should be doing right now."

Burns give her a smile and pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Mother, I'll be fine."

"I just don't know if it's the right time."

He laughs. "I don't know what makes it the wrong time."

Her hands twist in her lap.

"I'm not married, I've the summer off from my classes, you and Daddy are in good health—"

She sniffs and wiggles her head. "Dr. Temple says he's developing gout."

"Well, if that's all."

Her wide, blue eyes snap up to his. "But what if he takes an ill turn?"

"Then he'll swell. But he'll be fine, and that's what Dr. Temple is for, right? What difference does it make if I'm here?"

" _Bernard Felix."_

He sighs, and leans into the unforgiving upholstery of his mother's spindly sofa. Hard stuffing and floral brocade. The only sort of furniture she buys. She stares at her hands and quakes and shivers, and digs a silk handkerchief from her pocket.

"I know I didn't raise you to be so cavalier."

"Mother—"

"Especially where people's health is concerned." Her worried gaze darts to his again. "You'll watch your health, won't you, dear? The water over there is contaminated. You can't drink it—you know that, right? You could get malaria."

"I promise I won't drink the water," Burns says, and smooths a smirk from his lips. "Knowing Dave, we'll be on a strict bourbon regiment."

She scowls. "Wicked boy! You know alcohol is illegal!"

"Only in America, Mother."

"Well, where else does it count? Oh, I knew that Dave Daniels was bound to be a bad influence—"

Burns raises his eyebrows. "You've been known to partake every now and then, Mother. Even with Prohibition."

She flutters a sigh. "I am an old woman. What are they going to do? Arrest me? It's young fellows like you—young, nice men like you—they like to make an example of. And then it's all over the papers. News reporters love a fallen angel."

He snorts. "I think they love gangsters more."

"Oh, I know," she sniffs, and dabs her eyes. "I can't even hardly open a paper anymore, it's always so obscene. They treat Al Capone like he's Douglas Fairbanks. Like all of this murder and death is glamorous—I simply can't stomach it." Straightens her spine and her voice. "And I'll not have my boy being another sad story—another victim of illegal liquor."

"Those stories are usually about girls, Mother."

"That's because most boys aren't so nice as you."

Burns sighs, staring at the ceiling. Gaze tracing the gold velvet rope all the way to the chandelier in the very center. Glitter-sparking like a star in the waves of cream plaster. He stares at it thinking of the flask in his pocket. Thinking of all the ordinary ways a man can break his mother's heart.

"I'll only be gone a month," he says.

She sighs.

"And Dr. Chamberlain is coming."

"That old carpetbagger."

Burns stares at her quizzically. "Mother, you're from Baltimore."

"So?"

"So it's quite a bit closer to Boston than Jackson."

She sniffs and smooths her skirt over her knees. "Closer _geographically_ and closer _culturally_ are not always the same thing, young man." And stares wide-eyed at him again. "Speaking of which, I was just speaking with Lois Crawford, and she says it's considered _very offensive_ in those Arab countries to use your right hand. How people get by so backwards—or how you'll ever make it through a day without using your right hand—"

"Dr. Chamberlain says it's your left."

"Well Lois Crawford says—"

"Dr. Chamberlain has been to Egypt many times; I think he should know better than Lois Crawford." He doesn't mean for his voice to get so sharp, but it's too late. His mother gasps back a sob and blinks rapidly at tears. A searing sting. Burns bolts to his feet and crosses the room to sit beside her. To take her big hands while she leans into his shoulder and sniffles.

"Mother, I'm sorry."

"Oh, Bernard."

"I am, I'm very sorry. I shouldn't have been so short."

She gasps back a shaking breath. Gazes at him with full, wet eyes. "I know I'm being silly, just plain silly. And you're probably right about about Dr. Chamberlain knowing more than Lois Crawford. You're probably right, I just...Oh, Bernie! I'm just worried sick for you."

He smiles, and rubs her shoulder. "I know, Mother. But I'm going to be fine. Dr. Chamberlain is a very talented Egyptologist. He has an office in Cairo and everything. This is his work and he's good at it."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I am."

She sighs. And smiles, leaning gently away from him. Folding her handkerchief in her lap and carefully tucking it away. She glances at him and touches his cheek.

"You're a good boy." And flushes. "Young man, I mean. I suppose..." Gazing off across the room, taking breaths in shallow gasps. Whispering, "It happened so fast."

Burns pats her shoulder and stands. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Time just seems to go faster..." She shudders, and blinks up at him. Blue and desperate. "You just never know how much time you really have left with a person."

Burns tries not to sigh too loudly. Stuffs his fists in his pockets so she won't see them, smooths his brow so he's not glaring when he meets her eyes.

"Mother. I'm going."

"I know."

"I know you're worried, but really. I'll be fine." She makes herself smile, and he leans down and plants a kiss on her cheek. And her big hand curves around his neck, holds him against her for a moment longer than usual. Smelling like rosewater.

"All right, then," she says, and lets go. Blinking and sighing. "You have a good time. And you telegram at every stop."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you remember, there's no shame in coming home, if it gets to be too much."

Burns bites back a chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."

"You need anything, you let us know."

He nods. Glances at the clock on the mantle before he can stop himself, and swallows. "I ought to get the car, pick up Dave and Bar—" Flushes. Stops.

His mother's eyes narrow. "Dave and who?"

"Dave and Henderson. You know they're the ones I'm going with."

"'Ones with whom you're going,' and you weren't about to say Henderson just now. You said Bar-something." Her lips purse. "Barbara Gibbons."

Burns clears his throat. "What about her?"

"Is she coming along, too?"

Burns jolts a shrug. Wide-eyed guilty. "I—no. Of course not. No."

His mother frowns. Hard and sure and shrewd, settling in the lines around her mouth and eyes. She stares at him and shakes her head.

"Now I know I raised you better than to lie, Bernard."

He sighs.

"It's bad enough Dave swept in and stole her from you—"

"He didn't steal her—I went to call _one time,_ and—"

"—now he brings you along on this trip he's taking with her, just to shove her and her fancy diamond in your face." She shakes her head. Scowling. "No, no. I do not like this one bit. That Dave Daniels is no good, I've said it all along—"

"Mother."

"You need to stay."

"Mother—"

"I said you need to stay, Bernard!" Her eyes flash. "You're a good, kindhearted boy, and maybe you don't see how your friend is trying to make fun of you, but I do. And I won't have it. I just won't have it."

Burns glances at the clock again, shaking his head at himself. And probably at his mother, too. Maybe even at Barbara Gibbons—

"I will say this, I'm glad you didn't take things any further with that girl. Running off to Egypt with a fellow like some kind of—some kind of— _tramp."_

Burns snorts. "Mother, it's 1926."

She glares. "And that means what, exactly? That the whole world's gone upside down?"

"They're engaged, Mother. Good as married."

She stares, that one wrinkle by her left eye twitching. Twitching. Hands curling into fierce fists. Too angry to notice how large they look in her lap.

"No. No, young man. _Not_ 'good as married.' Not even close."

He stares and she stares. For a tick. And a tick. And at last he lets out a sigh. "Well. I think we can agree it actually is 'even close.'"

She huffs. "Not close enough for grand vacations. Heavens, I just don't know about this, Bernard. I just don't know. I don't like to think about people associating you with fast girls, going on a trip like this..."

Burns takes a breath. "Barbara isn't a fast girl. And you didn't want me going long before I let it slip that Dave is bringing her along."

Her eyes widen. "Well now I especially don't want you to go! Don't you want to settle down with a nice girl, have a family? You'll be taking your law exams next year—wouldn't you rather focus on serious things, and forget all this silly treasure-hunting nonsense in Egypt?"

Burns meets her gaze, and straightens his shoulders. Stands tall, chin up. And fights the urge to scratch his nose. He looks at her as calmly and seriously as his father does, when she's acting silly and everyone knows it but her. He tries to look like his father, the only one who can tell her she's worn out a lost point.

"Mother, I would very much like to get married, and have a family, and practice law. But I'm going to go to Egypt first."

She sniffs. "Heavens, Bernard..."

"I'm going," he says again. And gives her a parting smile. "I'll bring you back something nice, huh? Cleopatra's earrings."

She laughs, mostly earnest. Mostly. "Cleopatra's earrings. I'm not so sure I'd want them. I told you all of those queer happenings after they opened King Tut's tomb."

Burns chuckles, and she chuckles. And stands to give him one last hug. Strokes his back with her wide palm and stands on her toes. Tells his ear—

"At least I'm not so silly I'm fretting over curses, right?"


	2. Henderson

**Henderson**

He takes a little shaking breath. Blinks and looks at her again. Desperate and watery. "And you'll—you got to get him up at night. Like ten or so at night, or he might—you know—" Lowers his voice, "Wet himself."

She snorts, a frown wrinkling her pickled face. She wipes a long, gray strand of hair from her eyes. This hard little woman in a hard little kitchen, not feeling so close with the windows thrown open. Shabby but clean. Sting of vinegar on the floors and the sweetness of wildflowers, perky in a tarnished silver vase. "This ain't my first rodeo, Hank. I've took care of eight-year-old boys before." And sighs, loud and raspy. "Though not regularly ones stuck in a big ol' twenty-two-year-old man's body."

Henderson glances down. Into the weak darkness of his coffee, the only way she ever makes it. More like dirty water. Nothing to lift the fog or give him nerve. Nothing to grow some hair on his chest. Because Aunt Georgie made it through the Civil War, alone on a sharecropped homestead with a musket slung over her bony shoulder. Nine years old. And her spine doesn't need any more steel.

"Thank you for doing this," he says quietly. And Aunt Georgie snorts again. Brings her bone china teacup to her sunken mouth and takes a long sip of watered-down nothing.

"Not so often folks ask a thing of me no more," she says. "I don't mind."

Henderson nods. Slow and weary. Runs a hand through his limp hair and aches for some chew. Glances at Aunt Georgie, and gets the picture of it—him pulling out that tin and her knocking it right out of his hand. Tobacco curls on the floor and her gnarled fingers clutching his ear. Giving his head a stinging jerk.

"Maybe I just tell Dave and Bernard I ain't going."

Aunt Georgie blows a raspberry, wet on her papery lips. Catching him with the spray. "That's foolishness. You're a grown man never been nowhere, and what's the point of having rich friends if they don't take you places?"

Henderson pushes away a sad smile and shakes his head. "Silly treasure-hunting trip don't seem worth it, leaving him behind..."

"He'll be fine. Won't hurt him to have a different experience. Won't hurt you, neither."

He glances at her seriously. "He's just so..."

"Helpless."

"Yeah. And I'm all he's got."

Aunt Georgie heaves a sigh that makes the whole of her thin, stooped body rattle. "Well, baby...I know. And you been good to him, too. Better than most."

Henderson frowns, blinking hard. "Folks just don't understand him."

"They just ain't got the patience, that's the truth."

He swallows and shakes his head. "Sick to death of hearing how he ought to be in an asylum or some place."

"People are ugly, Hank. And the pain of it is, there just ain't enough love in this world to go around. And the ones like your brother—ones that need it the most, seems—they always the last to get it."

Her hand is on his shoulder, stronger and heavier than it looks. He looks up at her, into her clear, bright eyes and shriveled face, and stands on shaky knees. And holds her.

She's a wisp of a woman, what's left of her. And he's never known her as anything else, though he's heard the stories. The family yarns. Aunt Georgie and her musket, hunting rabbits to stay alive. Just her and Henderson's grandfather, a two-year-old baby. He knows about her digging a grave in the rocky dirt when a fever took her ma. He knows about her keeping his grandfather in the woods, five days straight, while Union soldiers picked their way through her precious supplies. Slept in her empty cabin. Killed her last laying hen. He knows she's leather, steel and bone-hard. Tougher than the fever that took her ma. Tougher than the war that took her pa. Tougher than the brawls and the gunfire and the breath-catching accidents that took so many other Hendersons. But not her. And she holds onto him like he's smaller than her, softer than her. And he wants to cry.

"He's gonna be all right," she says, rubbing his back. "He's a sweet boy, and I can handle him. You go on and get you some rest. Have you a rollicking good time. Maybe dig up a little something. Think how much he'd like that. He'll be tickled pink, you bring him back something from Egypt. I set him down and I'll learn him all about Egypt. We read Moses every day you gone. He'll like that."

Henderson nods, and steps gently out of her arms. "Just don't get him too worked up on Moses. He might get to worrying I'm suffering plagues."

Aunt Georgie cackles. "Now I hadn't even thought of that."

"He's got a big imagination."

Her eyes go wide. "Oh, yes, I hadn't even thought—and there's the plague of the firstborn! Shoot, learn him up on that, and he'll think you ain't never coming back. Big brother go to Egypt where the firstborns get took. He'll just go to pieces."

Henderson tries to smile. And can't. Aunt Georgie touches his arm.

"We read Joseph, then. Seeing dreams, rich and fancy in the land of Egypt."

Henderson sighs. "Seeing dreams."

"Yessir. The fat calves and the skinny calves."

"He'd like that. He likes cows."

Aunt Georgie smiles, and gives his arm a pat. "Then I'll be sure to tell him all about it. Now you best get a move on, boy. That train won't wait—and from what I know of Dave Daniels, he don't wait for much, neither."

Henderson flinches. Nods. "Yes, ma'am. I'll just tell him goodbye—"

"Don't," she says.

"What? Why not?"

But her gaze is as firm and hard as the hand on his arm. "You tell him you're going, get him all upset, and you'll lose your nerve."

"Aunt Georgie, I got to say goodbye."

She blinks sad eyes. "He's happy now, Hank. Out playing in the back with the dog. I know it's hard, but let him be happy. He don't got the sense of time we got. You tell him you're going, and for the next month he'll be worked up sick over when you coming back. But if he come in here, and you ain't here, I say to him, 'Baby, he'll be back in a while.' And he goes on happy. He'll wonder, but he won't panic. You know?"

Henderson swallows. Stares and blinks and tries to catch his breath. "Aunt Georgie—"

"Don't make it hard on him, Hank," she says. Sharper than he expects. "And if I'm allowed to be a crotchety old woman for a spell—don't make it hard on me."

His eyes widen. "Aunt Georgie, if you don't think you can manage him—"

"Phooey. I managed harder things than a simple boy when your grandpap still shit his britches." Her crepey throat flexes, quivers. And she glances down at her knobby hands. "But all the same, I can't have him getting so worked up, he runs off or some fool thing."

Henderson sighs.

"I can't have that, Hank."

And nods real slow.

"I just...I'd feel better if I could say goodbye."

Aunt Georgie chuckles, and gives his arm a weak swat. "Now don't go getting all weepy-eyed on me, honey. You'll be back before you know it, and he'll hardly know you're gone."

Henderson stuffs his hands in his pockets, tapping his fingers against his tobacco tin. Gazing at his dusty cowboy boots on Aunt Georgie's clean floorboards. Something strange and oily knotting inside of him.

"And what if I don't come back?" he whispers.

Aunt Georgie huffs. "You abandon that boy, I'll come after you myself. Make a raft and cross the ocean. You know I could."

He lets out a thin chuckle. "I know you could, but that ain't how I mean. I mean...what if something happens to me?"

A loud, wet snort. "Boy, please. You're a Henderson. 'Round here some people take that for meaning poor white trash, but it don't. Means you got gunpowder in your veins. And the only way you go out...is up in smoke."


	3. Dr Chamberlain

**Dr. Chamberlain**

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

His accent is almost gone, scraped and smoothed over the hard rock of Dr. Chamberlain's disapproving frown. It's been a year, and he finally speaks properly. When he answers the telephone in Chamberlain's office, those who don't know him take him for a graduate student. British, usually. Though the occasional keen ear catches the sonorous drag of Brahman Bostonian. Chamberlain taught him that. Worked it into his speech with so many narrow-eyed glances and twitches of his lip. With so many sighs and labored corrections.

He speaks English like it's his language now. And Chamberlain thinks that's a gift.

Rashid thinks it's a punishment. Like a father's beating, but far more agonizing. Prolonged. Ground away and broken for something Chamberlain doesn't know he knows.

Chamberlain heaves a sigh like it's an impossible burden. Leans back in his chair and pulls the monocle from his eye. Rubs it til it waters, and finds a handkerchief to dab it dry.

All the while, Rashid stands in the doorway. Waiting.

Straight-backed, because that's how a butler ought to stand. One arm folded behind his back because...because that's just how it's done. Expressionless because it's insolent to suggest he feels like his time is being wasted. He's learned these things. And he's learned how to sound like he's not a sixteen-year-old Arab boy on the phone.

He's been told these are important skills. For his future.

"Everything is packed?" Chamberlain asks.

It's been packed since Tuesday.

"Yes, sir."

He's asked every day since Tuesday. Every day since Rashid pulled up to the port in Chamberlain's long, black auto. Hopped out and held the door for him. And the three American men. And the one American woman, with short hair and bare arms and a bright smile—

A brighter diamond.

"I can think of nothing else, then," Chamberlain says with a wave of his hand.

Rashid holds back a sigh. "Shall I wait for you in the auto?"

Chamberlain purses his lips.

"—Sir. Shall I wait for you in the auto, sir?"

"No, no sense in that. I'll only be another moment." Stern dark eyes flitting about the dim office. "You might tidy up a bit."

Rashid doesn't sigh, but he wants to. He's learned that butlers don't sigh. So instead the breath builds up inside him, growing hot and sick in his stomach. And he wonders if one of these days he'll burst from the pressure.

If he did, Chamberlain would scold him for not aptly recalling his lessons on combustion.

And also for bursting. Because butlers simply don't burst, Rashid.

He walks to the closet and finds the broom. Sweeps it over a floor he's already swept—

"A few weeks in the desert, it's sure to get rather dusty without you," Chamberlain says.

Rashid frowns. "Am I coming, sir?"

Chamberlain frowns back. More severe on his long face. "I don't see how I can get along out there without you."

"You didn't tell me I was coming."

Chamberlain scoffs. "Well. I never told you the rain makes one wet, either, but I daresay you'd step inside, anyway."

It hasn't rained since last year.

Rashid sucks in a breath. But doesn't, _doesn't,_ sigh. "I didn't know that you wanted me to come."

Chamberlain folds his hands on his desk. Managing to look down his nose at Rashid even though he's in a chair.

"Well. Now you're informed. The barge departs at noon, but we'll need to be at port by—"

"My mother is expecting me. She's counting on my being here while you're in the desert."

Chamberlain's scowl is more squint than glare. A long, puzzled gaze that's only cruel in the corner of his mouth.

"Your mother," he spits— _if gentlemen spit, Rashid._

Rashid keeps his hands stiff and flat against his legs. "Yes. You're only here a few times a year, sir—"

"Yes," Chamberlain says. Sharp and grave. "And for the duration of my stays, you are supposed to be at my service. That is our agreement."

"Yours and my mother's."

A sneer wrinkles Chamberlain's lip. "Mine and your mother's."

Rashid clenches his jaw. And shakes his head.

"So you will be out front with the auto at exactly ten-thirty, to allow ample time—"

"I'm not going."

Chamberlain stares. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not going to Hamunaptra. I can't. I have an obligation to my mother."

His eyes narrow. Dark, glinting slits. "Your obligation is to me. We very, _very_ recently discussed this."

Rashid jerks a shrug that's not nearly so easy as he hoped. But he meets Chamberlain's eyes with fire and certainty.

"She's my mother. You're only my employer."

Chamberlain's hands curl into fists. He forces them to relax.

"Right?" Rashid throws. A little too petulantly. He'll regret it later, but not now. Now he's proud of the spark in his tone. The flash in his eyes. He's proud, tight and burning for Chamberlain's response. Or retort. Or tantrum. A whimper, a choke, a sorry glance at his feet—anything—anything—Because Rashid knows. And now Chamberlain knows that he knows.

He's imagined this moment a dozen different ways. A hundred different ways. Various shades of the same thing. He's imagined Chamberlain's anger or sadness or disdain, and all of them sound fine. To jab the man the way he's jabbed Rashid. And jabbed him. And jabbed him. _That's not the way you say it, Rashid._ And _butlers don't sulk, Rashid_. And _you'll be happy for the correction one day, Rashid_. Like he owes Chamberlain. Like his mother owes Chamberlain. When Rashid knows— _oh, Rashid knows_ —it's the other way around.

He owes her for disgracing her family. For her father's beating and her brothers' beating and the reproachful glances she suffers in the marketplace. Has suffered now, something like sixteen years. He owes her for her loneliness and her hunger and for the imam who has not let her step foot in the mosque for as long as Rashid can remember. He owes her for the men who have tried to make her a whore, and the men who have succeeded. He owes her for her tears and her misery and her stubbornness to keep on. To push on. Because she has done what she's done and she wears the scars...

While Chamberlain does nothing. Comes to Egypt and leaves from Egypt. Teaches and reads and scoffs over politics and religion. And science and religion. And the grave and terrible life he's given her, handed to her in an envelope patched with broken promises. _Won't you stay a little later, Leila? Your eyes are so lovely, Leila. You should uncover your hair. Dress like a modern, Western woman. You have the form for it, Leila. You would do splendidly in America. Have you considered America? And won't you lay down beside me, Leila...?_

He owes her. And Rashid has known for a while now. Has waited, for a while now, to hear Chamberlain admit as much. Angrily or sorrowfully or with a fond kind of leer in the corner of his eye. And he's had the words ready, for a while now, to throw back in his face.

 _Fathers don't abandon their sons, Allen._

 _Fathers don't treat them like butlers, Allen._

 _Fathers don't care more about how their sons pronounce a word than about what they have to say. Allen._

 _Fathers don't—_

"You're right."

Rashid startles. Blinking, shaking his head. Staring at Chamberlain staring placidly back at him. Chamberlain folds hands that might have been shaking. Blinks eyes that might have watered. Likely from the glare through the window.

"What?" Rashid whispers.

Chamberlain clears his throat. Rises from his chair and straightens the pile of books in front of him. "I said you're right." Never glancing up from his desk. "If your mother's welfare is dependent on your being in Cairo during the next few weeks, I shan't steal you away." Sighs, and squares his shoulders. And looks at Rashid, right in his eyes. "She needs you far more than I."


	4. Daniels

**Daniels**

"Dave," she says, "it's over."

He watches the sunlight spark in the deepest part of her diamond ring. Shatter a hundred little rainbows all around the room. He looks at it and then he looks at her. And raises his eyebrows.

"Don't look over, that thing still on your hand."

She doesn't glance at it.

"You going to give it back?"

She presses her lips together. Soft, pretty lips. A kind of burgundy color that's all the rage right now. Even with an Egyptian tan, it makes her skin look pale. Suits her in a cold kind of way. Dark lips. Dark hair. Dark eyes. And cool, cool skin.

He always did like the icy ones.

"You know," she says, wrapping one long-fingered hand over the other. Twisting the diamond on its thin, platinum band. "Up til you asked me that, I thought...I would."

Daniels frowns. "It's the classy thing to do, Barbara."

She almost laughs. Thin and humorless. "Is that how I strike you now; classy?"

Long legs in pale pink stockings and T-strap maroon leather heels. Dropped-waist silk frock, a riot of aubergine and burgundy and darkest pinks. No sleeves. Long white arms and long white pearls and little garnet earrings in her ears. Smooth black bob under a purple cloche hat and sharp eyebrows raised. Oh, she strikes him as classy. Always has. That pale, cool woman in a sea of sun-bleached, sun-tanned rancher girls.

"You're striking me as peculiar right now," he says instead.

Barbara sniffs. And glances down.

"What's this about, anyways?"

Her lips twitch, and she drums dark-nailed fingers on her lap. Gazing at the floor. "I reckon I could tell you it's about any number of things. I could say it was the girl the other night, but we both know she wasn't the first. I could say it was halfway across the Atlantic, I started thinking maybe the rest of our lives is too long. I could say I don't know if it's been too fun or no fun at all; that my daddy don't like you or that my mama does—I could say any of that, I suppose. One of them's true. Bound to be. Somewhere in there, there's a reason."

Daniels frowns. "You ain't making any sense, Barb."

"I know."

He lets out a long sigh. Leans back against his wicker chair and takes a sweating glass of bourbon from the end table. Sips and stares across the hotel room, out the glass French doors where a balcony cuts into the blue, blue sky. He thinks about standing there with her the night they arrived, gazing across the cool, purple-black. So high that it's all whisper-white sand, at night. Under the moon. They held each other and breathed strange air, like just leaning there was its own adventure.

"Anyways, it's over," he sighs.

"I'm afraid it is."

He snorts and glances back at her. At her wide, dark eyes and unreadable face. "And you intend to keep that diamond ring."

"I think it's fair I get something to show for this."

Daniels frowns, darker and darker the longer he stares at her. "Something to _show_ for this?"

She blinks. "I come all the way to Egypt with you, and nobody back home is so stupid they don't know we played house the whole way here. I think I'm owed something for a ruined reputation."

"You ruined your own reputation," he says. Sharp. He puts his bourbon down with a clink and straightens in his seat. "And it's mighty high-horsed of you to think your damn reputation was ever worth eight-thousand dollars regardless."

Barbara sits taller on the bed and smooths her skirt over her knees. She looks right at him, "So, what? Are you going to come over here and rip it right off my finger?"

He glares and she glares, across clean, hard floorboards she can't seem to stop glancing at. All day, she's looked at that place between them. Paused and sighed and skirted around it like something inconvenient is heaped there that he can't see.

"What's on the floor?"

Her eyes dart up, wide and guilty. "Nothing. I—spilled some red wine last night. I've been worried it stained. The pine is so light—"

Daniels scowls at the floor. "That ain't pine."

A whispered, "Isn't it?"

"They got enough coats of varnish, shouldn't be liable to stain on account of wine."

"Oh."

He gives her a smirk. "Honey, worse things than spilled wine happened on these floors, I guarantee."

He expects her to laugh, but instead she pales. Swallows hard and keeps staring, staring at the floor. At that one particular place.

He watches her. "Are you okay?"

Barbara blinks rapidly and meets his gaze with glassy eyes. Trembling lips. "Of course I'm not okay. Dave, I thought we were getting married. I thought I loved you, and here I am in Egypt _of all places,_ figuring on whether I even like you that much."

"Barbara—"

"I mean, you ain't even fought me on it," she sniffs. Swallows down her homespun accent and shakes her head. "You haven't even fought me. I say it's over and you don't say a damned thing. You ask if I'm giving you the ring back. _That's_ what you say, when I say it's over. That's all you have to say."

Daniels sighs. "What is it you'd like me to say?" He holds up his hands. Shrugs. A helpless kind of gesture on a self-made kind of man. "Am I supposed to chase you down, 'Woman, yes you are marrying me.' Thump you over the head with a club and drag you on back to my cave. Is that how you want it?"

She glances at the ceiling and shakes her head. "No, that's not how I want it..."

Daniels leans back in his chair. Takes a long, slow sip of bourbon and shrugs. "Barbara, I want you to be my bride. But I know exactly what you're doing, and I ain't falling for it."

She scoffs. "Falling for what?"

He puts his glass down and stares at her. "You're all riled about Hamunaptra."

She rolls her eyes.

"See? You don't think I can't tell that's what it is? Worked up all in a tizzy 'cause the boys and me are fixing to get us some treasure—"

"Please. You'll get sunburns and heatstroke at best."

"—and you don't want to come."

Barbara grimaces. "Who in God's name would? Sand and bugs and this awful heat—I'd rather swallow a goldfish."

Daniels huffs. Mutters, "It'd be the first time you swallowed."

"Hush!" Her jaw drops and her hands curl into little white fists. "I am not one of your fast girls; make little crude remarks and I'll just giggle like an empty-headed ninny. Tell me, do you want me to be your wife or not?"

"I do."

He says it plain. Simple. Level eyes and serious mouth. And she breathes a trembling sigh.

"Then why won't you act like it?" she whispers.

He doesn't blink. "I love you, Barbara. You know I do."

She sniffs and sighs and rubs her temples. "Thought I was a real modern woman, coming on this trip with you. Thought I knew a thing my mama doesn't. But here I am like some kind of fool. Because this whole trip it's been you sneaking off here or there. Gambling or meeting fast girls. And now you'll—what? Go on a treasure hunt? You and Henderson and Burns, like you're still boys playing pirates?"

"You knew we were coming for treasure. You knew that was the whole damn point of coming."

Barbara shakes her head. And stands very slowly, or very quickly. He blinks and she's standing over him, standing right on the part of the floor she's been watching. And he feels like she just appeared there. And he feels like she's been on her way to standing for quite some time.

"I'm _leaving_ , Dave," she says. "Chase me or don't. This ain't about Hamunaptra or no thing in particular. This is just two people who are done."

He looks at her. And sighs. And takes a sip of bourbon. "You walk out that door, I won't chase you."

"I know."

She says it with a firm voice. But she hasn't moved from that spot. She shifts her weight but she doesn't move.

"You just ain't ready to get married," she blurts.

"Perhaps not."

"Or just ain't ready to marry me."

"Perhaps not that, either."

She closes her eyes. Presses her lips together. Whispers, "Dave..."

And now he's standing. Quickly because she hadn't expected him to do it at all. He's standing and his hands are on her arms, running up and down her arms. He pulls her closer and she lets him. Leans her forehead against his and gasps back tears.

"You don't have to go," he tells her. Soft and true.

She wraps her arms around his neck. "I can't stay. I can't go out in that nasty old desert with—" And swallows. And shakes. "I can't do that."

He tips her chin. "So wait here."

"Alone?"

Daniels glances away. And her body stiffens in his arms. Tense and cold as a dead thing. Her arms drop from him and she takes a step away. Stares desperate and tearful into his eyes.

"We could go back," she says. "The two of us. Or we could stay, and let Burns and Henderson go out on their—"

Her words drop off into the silence. Flutter to the floor and settle like yellowed paper at her feet. Her jaw clenches and she shakes her head.

"Goddamn it," she whispers. And that's all.

He stares at her and she stares at the floor. Rubs the toe of her shoe along the gleaming board. Lovingly or hatefully. Drawing a long line of nothing.

Her gaze snaps up to his, dark and broiling. "I'm taking the damned ring. You're going to be so filthy rich on treasure, you can spare it." And raises an eyebrow. Smoke and daring. _"Right?"_

Daniels growls a sigh. "Barbara."

She crosses her arms. "Right? I mean, it's not as if Hamunaptra is just...some scam. Some silly excuse for you and your buddies to get off-your-ass drunk in the middle of nowhere, rather than acting like grown damn men. Right?" He reaches to touch her, and she flinches away. Points a shaking finger in his face. "I'm taking the ring."

"Barbara—"

" _I'm taking the ring._ Say another thing about it."

Daniels throws up his hands. Tight-jawed angry. "Fine, Barbara. Just fine. Take the goddamn ring. You've been clearer about wanting the ring than about why you're leaving in the first place. Which I reckon is all I really need to know. Ain't it?"

"Beg your pardon?"

He sniffs. Crosses his arms and glares down at her. "Funny how you come to this...eye-opening revelation _after_ you've got that fine ring on your finger and an exotic, all-expense-paid luxury vacation to Egypt under your belt."

Barbara shakes. Pale skin flaring, blotching red. _Heat don't suit you, cool woman,_ Daniels thinks.

"You've got a lot of nerve," she spits.

"Oh, _I've_ got a lot of nerve?"

"Yes. You, goddamn you. _You._ I have put up with so much bull on your account—"

" _What_ bull?"

"Is there a floozy tourist or half-naked dancer you _ain't_ put your hands on yet?"

"God almighty, Barbara, is that all?"

Something spark-bursts in her eyes. Dark shattered rage. _"All!_ Is that _all,_ you say? You have the _audacity—"_

Daniels snorts. "What, you worried I'll throw you over for a—"

"—to say it like it's—"

"—belly-dancer or a—a—a—Goddamn it, woman, quit talking over me!"

"Say it like it's nothing," she mutters. And glances away.

Daniels sighs. "You got to know there ain't a woman on earth that holds a candle to you, where I'm concerned."

She scoffs.

"I'm serious! I'm just—just—first off, it ain't exactly been all that much. You got to know."

" _Please."_

"You got to know, Barb. I'm just—you know, it's a man's weakness."

She raises her eyebrows. "A man's weakness?"

"I have needs."

She stares. Jaw dropped. And blinks. "And what sort of 'needs' are those that I haven't been fulfilling, exactly?"

He scrubs the back of his neck. And then his chin. Grimacing but telling her anyway, "Baby, there are things a man only sees fit to ask a whore—or...See, the way of it is, I respect you too much. You are my future wife and mother to my children, and I just don't feel right asking you to attend to these particular, uh...needs."

She stares. "You _respect_ me too much?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You run about with Egyptian tramps, because—you _respect me._ Too much."

"That's the way of it, darlin'."

The jolt of pain across his face is so hard and sharp and sudden, it's a moment before he can blink the confusion out of his bleary eyes and see that she's hit him. Holding a throbbing hand, heaving, heaving.

"You son of a bitch!" she says. "Just how stupid do you take me for with that line of bull?"

Daniels rubs his mouth. Flexes his lips and scowls at her. Blinking and blinking and trying very, very hard to keep his hands off of her. He puffs out breaths like a freight train. Whirls around and snatches his bourbon and finishes it in one, big gulp.

Coughs and mutters, "This is some bullshit."

She snorts. "You're goddamn right about that." Sniffles and closes her eyes. She looks tired when she puts a hand to her forehead. Tired and lost and a little bit silly. "I wish you'd just say what it really is."

"Woman, I haven't even the first idea of what you mean."

She snorts. Shakes her head and looks right at him. Dull and sure. "You don't respect me. Or maybe you do. But either way, you're just bored. I'm boring to you, and that's why..." Gasp. Blink. "That's why..."

Daniels lets out a crumpling sigh. Drooping shoulders and a weary frown. Rubbing his face absently. "You know, it ain't that I'm bored with you, honey. It ain't that at all. It's just...We're in a new place. You got to sample the local flavor."

Barbara straightens. Glares. "'Local flavor'?"

"Yes," he retorts.

"That's an excuse. And a ridiculous one at that."

Daniels glares. "Ain't like I'm running out on you, Barbara. Ain't like I'm abandoning you, high and dry. But...But a man only lives once. You know. He only lives once."

"And what about a woman? How many lives does she get?"

He says nothing. She sticks her hands on her hips and glares. "Hm? Does she get her—sample of the local flavor?"

Daniels sneers. "Only if she wants to bring home a brown little baby for it."

Barbara's eyes narrow. Mouth flexing, forming silent words. And taking them back. And trying again. She straightens and looks him in the eye. "Supposing—" Daniels stares. "Supposing she was careful." Shrugs. "Or tried to be. Supposing he was something rather strange to her, and she was something rather strange to him. And her fiance was out, again. And she was angry, again. And he was there. And he was different. And he kissed her like she wasn't always going to be there. And she remembered how she used to like that, not being taken for granted. Supposing she just wants to be the fast girl for a change, instead of the one waiting up all night—can she do it then? Is it okay, then?"

Daniels stares. Nostrils flaring. Hands flexing. Blood thumping, pumping red in his face. He sucks in breaths he never quite lets out. Glares and quakes and quakes and quakes.

"What?" he whispers, deathly quiet. "What in the hell did you do?"

Her lip wrinkles. "You're a smart boy. You can figure it out."

He hears the dull smack before he realizes he's done it. Struck her across the mouth. Split her burgundy lip, spilling bright blood through the rouge. Down her pale chin. She holds her mouth and stares at him. Wide and fearful, gasping. Gasping. Blinking hurt eyes and something like anger creasing her brow.

He isn't angry anymore. His face isn't red anymore. He's gone white, cold and shivering. Red hand throbbing, trembling at his side. He stares at it and wants to vomit. Swallows and swallows and makes himself look in her face. Begs himself to say the words pulsing through him faster than the nausea in his gut. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorryI'msorrysorrysorrysorry—_

He reaches a gentle hand for her arm but she flinches away.

"You can have the ring," he says, high and desperate. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Please take the ring."


	5. Beni

_**Author's Note.** Aaaaaand we're done. You shouldn't expect to see any more from me here, because I really haven't been giving these characters a ton of thought lately. But this was kind of a fun way to jog me back into writing after a break. And this has always been a nice community. :) Thanks for reading!_

* * *

 **Beni**

It's dark.

Not outside, of course. Outside it's blaring. Bleached heat slumping, coiling, seeping right through his clothes. Right into his skin. It's bright and it's terrible—dry-clinging-to-the-roof-of-his-mouth terrible—but it isn't so bad in here.

Out there it's Egypt. It's sand and dust and camels and sweat, always sweat. But in here is the high-vaulted silence. Stained-glass and candlelit dark. Cooler in its own way. Dim enough to dull his headache. Scuff-shuffling quiet enough to breathe. He crumples in the pew and presses his fingertips to his temples. Closes his eyes.

"You look troubled, my son."

 _My son_. He scoffs. Shoots a bleary-eyed glare at the young priest hanging over his shoulder. Fingers twitching at his sides, rubbing his palms on his black robe.

"'Your son.' It is a wonder your voice doesn't crack, Joseph."

The priest winces. Bright color on his freckled cheeks. _"Please_ call me father, Beni."

"You aren't even old enough to be my twin."

" _Please."_

Beni sighs. Leans back and crosses his arms. Glaring at Joseph, lips twitching at a sneer. Joseph sweats. And blushes, dark red at the ears. Redder even then his dusty orange hair.

"I have come to confess. Father."

Joseph breathes a shaking sigh. Something like relief. He looks back at Beni with watery green eyes and forces a smile.

"That's—that's good. Very good. Shall we?" And throws a skinny, trembling arm toward the confessional. Beni stares at it with grim eyes. And shrugs.

His joints pop when he stands. Stretches his arms over his head and yawns loudly, spine cracking like the worn black Bible in the priest's hand. Joseph rubs his thumb over the embossed letters. _Vulgate._ And glances away.

He walks with the anxious determination of a young man about to do old man's work. So eager it turns Beni's stomach. And he almost says he'll wait for Father Lucius—miserable, worty old hog. He almost says he'll confess to Father Lucius, but he doesn't have all day to do penance and Joseph will make it easy on him.

 _Five Hail, Mary's and an Our Father,_ he'd said last time. And Beni had balked—

 _Is that all?_

And heard the dopey smile in his voice, _I'll pray the rest for you._

What a sap.

Beni pulls back the dark purple curtain of the confessor's box and pretends it isn't odd that Joseph prays for him. Pretends that many other priests have said, _I'll pray the rest_. Oh, priests were always praying for him. Narrow-eyed and frowning. He told Father Lucius that he'd pulled twenty dollars from the mattress lining of a whore's crib, while she and her baby were sleeping. And Father Lucius snorted, sandpaper-scowl in his voice when he told him _I'll pray for you_. Sounding more like he was praying him deeper into purgatory than out of it.

Beni pales and crosses himself. No, he doesn't care to see Father Lucius on a day like this. He will need Joseph's fervent prayers if he wants to make it back from Hamunaptra alive.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been...six days since my last confession."

It's quiet on the other side of the wall, and Beni can only just make out the shadow of Joseph's face through the open lattice-work screen.

"But I have not heard your confession in over two weeks," he whispers at last.

Beni tosses a Hungarian curse at the ceiling. "Yes, that new priest heard it for me. What is his name? Italian, Something-o—"

"Father Angelo." He says it like vinegar.

Beni sneers. "Ah, that was it. Angelo. A rather striking fellow, eh? Why should he become a priest, I wonder. Handsome as he is, he should have no trouble finding a woman—"

"That isn't why men join the priesthood—"

"—or _many_ women, if he was smart. Do you suppose he prefers boys?"

" _That_ isn't why men join the priesthood, either," Joseph snaps. A little too quickly.

Beni bites down hard to keep from laughing out loud. Shoulders shaking, grin splitting his face.

"I should remind you that this is a place of reverence and contrition."

Beni presses his lips against a smirk. "I am not familiar with such _long_ words."

He hears Joseph squirm in his seat. Cough and drum his fingers on the cover of his Bible. "R-reverence means—you know, respect. The kind of holy respect you have for God—"

"Ah."

"And—and contrition is—is—is—" A huff. "You're making fun of me."

"Yes."

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Forgive me, 'Father.'"

Joseph shifts. The pages of his Bible flutter. "It's only—look. I am happy to be your friend, Beni. I know that your life has been hard, and I don't want to be one of those—those priests who is cold and distant to their flock. That isn't the nature of Christ, and that shouldn't be the nature of his servants. I believe that. And I want you to know, you may always come to me—as a friend, any time, outside of the church. B-but in here, I am your priest. I know that you're—you're older than me, and you know more about...life, I guess—certain aspects of it, you do. You know more than me. All right? But it doesn't take a great lot of discernment to recognize that—that—that _maybe_ , being where you are in life, and being where I am in life—that maybe I know more about certain things—s-certain _important_ , beneficial things that—that would—uh, benefit you. To...know."

Beni sighs. Holds back a yawn. "Of course, Father. Good talk. Will you hear my confession now?"

A whispered, "Yes."

"Very good. Do I begin again, or—?"

"No, that's all right—"

Beni frowns. Suspicious. "Does it still count if I do not start again?"

Joseph chuckles, more nervous than he realizes. "It still counts. I promise. Please begin."

Beni reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rosary with milky blue beads. An enamel likeness of the Virgin. Thin, wasting Jesus dangling on a silver cross. He rolls it between his hands and thinks.

Aloud.

"I have lied, I have stolen—"

"What did you steal?"

Beni groans. "Shit, Father—"

"You have used unclean speech."

" _Fasz kivan."_

Sharper, _"You have used unclean speech._ Just because I can't understand you doesn't mean it's not a sin."

Beni rolls his eyes. "I stole a coat and a loaf of bread."

"And did you steal because you coveted your neighbor?"

"I coveted his full stomach."

Joseph sighs. "Beni, poverty is not a sin. My brothers in other orders take vows of poverty because they believe it isn't really possible to live a devout life with riches."

Beni scoffs.

"'Blessed are the poor,' Jesus said that. And he also said it was easier for a camel to enter through the eye of the needle than for a rich man to make it into heaven." He laughs. "Now that I've seen a camel in the flesh, and can really conceptualize—"

"I have not loved God with my whole heart, I have not loved my neighbor as myself, I have lusted after women—can we move on?"

"I'm only saying—"

"I'm poor. That makes me holy. I understand."

"Actually, that isn't quite—"

"I fucked a married woman."

Joseph drops his Bible with a clack. Fumbles and flusters and Beni waits. Rolls his rosary with one hand and reaches into his pocket with the other. Flips open a pocket watch in the time it takes Joseph to cough and swallow hard and still his anxious, drumming fingers.

"O-oh?"

"Well, not entirely married. Engaged. Whatever that means."

"It means she has promised to marry someone else."

Beni snorts. "What's the difference between that and married?"

He doesn't mean it as an honest question, but Joseph is already in a state. He already dropped his Bible. He's already babbling—

"W-well, traditionally, it means that no wedding has—has taken place, or—or—or—or the marriage hasn't been, uh, consummated."

"'Consummated.'"

Joseph takes a breath. "Yes, the, uh, bride and groom have not—have not yet—uh—"

"He hasn't fucked her. I know what consummated means, all right? They consummated all across the ocean to get to this hellhole of a country. So what does that make them?"

"Well—"

"We call it married," Beni says, and snaps his watch closed. "You buy a ring that costs more than a house for a woman, she had better be having your babies, eh? And not just a couple babies. I mean lots and lots of babies. So many babies you forget the way she looks without one in her. That's a fool who buys a woman a ring when she doesn't belong to him. We call it married and save the trouble of deciding how married she really is."

Joseph sighs, and Beni can almost hear him nod. The scrape of his skin against a clerical collar that's too tight. Even for his silly chicken neck.

"So you slept with a—she's engaged but we'll say married—woman."

Beni bites back a smirk. Forces a frown and a curious tone, "Oh, no, I did not have time for sleep. I fucked her and I left."

"N-no, that's not—it's a—uh, an expression—" Joseph lets out a loud sigh. "You're making fun of me again."

Snickers.

" _Beni."_

He holds up his hands. "The last time, I swear."

Joseph sighs again. That's all he does over there. He's either sighing or stuttering and Beni would find both annoying if Joseph wasn't praying him into heaven faster than the latest the saint.

"Did you even have sex with this woman, or is this all one big joke?"

Beni smirks. Leans back and crosses his arms. "I didn't 'have sex' with her. I fucked her, hard, on the floor of her hotel room while her not-husband and his stupid friends were in the lobby drinking and gambling and making passes at belly-dancers."

It's quiet. And for a moment Beni remembers cold floorboards under his palms and long, shaved legs around his waist. Silky skin and silky hair and burning, furious eyes. Hateful. Pushy. Urgent. Kissing with too much teeth. Holding with too much nails. Making him make it hurt worse than—

"You seduced this woman."

Beni scoffs. "She threw herself at me."

Joseph snorts. Actually, out loud. A snort that makes Beni's eyes narrow, and go searching through the lattice screen.

"You don't believe me, now?"

"Beni."

"She did! I swear to you. I was minding my own business, leaving the hotel after the hundredth boring meeting this Egyptologist has insisted we have, going over and over _and over_ the whole trip, and—"

"Egyptologist?"

Beni winces. Mutters a curse.

"Why are you meeting with an Egyptologist?"

"Come on, Father, it isn't a sin—"

"Leading people to miserable deaths in the desert is, however."

"—and I was just getting to the good part! You wanted to hear that, didn't you? How she asked me to stay back, all cold and snooty, and then as soon as the door closed—"

"Why are you meeting with an Egyptologist, Beni? I'm not going to ask again."

Beni sighs. Runs his thumb over the Virgin's enamel face on his rosary. "Okay, fine. I am leaving on a trip to Hamunaptra today."

For a while all he can hear is Joseph's angry breath. Loud nose-breathing like a bull. Snort and huff and then—

"I have a responsibility to go to the police. You know that, right?"

Beni scoffs. "So go to them."

"I will. I'm going to, this time. I have to."

"Fine."

"You don't think I will."

Beni glances at the ceiling. And sighs. "The first time I thought you might. But here we are at perhaps the fourth or fifth time, and still no shackles on my wrists."

He waits, and Joseph says nothing.

"If it helps your conscience, we really are going this time. I am not leaving them anywhere. We are going out there, and we are coming back."

"Nothing is going to help my conscience but telling the truth."

Beni stares. Twitching. Twitching. Gaze flaring at the screen. "I have made an _honest_ deal."

"With a fellow whose fiancee you slept with."

"Whose what?"

Joseph scoffs. "I'm not falling for that again."

"This time I honestly don't know."

"Yes, you do. You spoke French in the Legion for years. You know what a fiancee is."

Beni purses his lips. He stares past the rosary in his hand to his feet on the floor. Dusty in their sandals. Yellowed nails and sunburned toes.

"You know, when you think about it, it really isn't my sin. She is the one who broke her promise."

Joseph sounds tired when he sighs. "You didn't have to sleep with her. Nobody made you."

"She threw herself at me."

"That doesn't matter."

Beni rolls his eyes. "What should I have done, then? Since you are so smart. Give me your sagely advice, oh celibate one."

A breath. "Joseph fled Potiphar's wife when she threw herself at him."

A grim sneer tugs at Beni's lips. "Ah. So is that the Joseph you have named yourself after? I always assumed it was Mary's husband."

"Joseph is actually my given name."

"It suited you, a man who was happy to marry a woman and never fuck her."

Beni can feel Joseph staring through the lattice screen. If he leaned closer, and squinted, he could probably see his wide or narrow eyes. But Beni doesn't. He leans back and dangles his rosary in front of him. Watches the cross twist and swing, back and forth. Back and forth. Back and—

"I infer you're saying something about me, but I'm puzzled over what it is."

Beni sighs. "No you're not."

Desperately, "Is this a cruel jab about my vows?"

"It has nothing to do with your goddamn vows, 'Father.'"

Joseph swallows. And shudders. "Okay." And breathes, trembling, breathes. Says again, "Okay."

Beni rolls his rosary in his hand. A pleasant, smooth clatter. Easy, "You know, you are the only one I confess to, about the people in the desert."

Whispers, "So you have known for quite some time."

Beni scoffs. "It is obvious to anyone who knows how to look. Did you forget where I come from? I grew up in the alleys where perverts like you would come looking for...unnatural lovers."

Joseph sucks in a breath. "I have never, ever done that."

" _Of course_ not, Father."

"I haven't. Ever." He swallows. Leans closer to the screen and whispers even quieter, "If—if—if—look. I suppose there isn't any point in lying, is there? No, I don't like women. A-a-and I never have. But I didn't join the priesthood to hide it—"

Beni snorts.

"I didn't! At least, not only for that. Okay? I am a good priest, and—"

"So good you will pray more than half my penance for me, eh?"

Joseph sighs. The rustle of his clothes as he crumples in his seat. The ghostly flutter of his Bible's pages.

His mumble, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to say nothing," Beni spits. "That is the entire point, _Joseph_. I want you to pray and grant me forgiveness and keep your mouth shut to the police. And you will do this because I know your disgusting secret, don't I?"

Joseph's voice is gruff and thick. A sob sticks in his throat. "That isn't the reason. That isn't the reason I never went to the police."

Beni grimaces at the floor. "Of course it isn't. Because you seemed to think you were hiding it _so well—"_

"Beni—"

"Because—I can come to you any time! As your _friend,_ of course. There is nothing strange about that. Not at all. And why shouldn't you get jealous when another priest hears my confession? Another young, handsome priest—it is, of course, most usual for a man to behave this way." Beni's jaw tightens. "Because if, by some kind of witchcraft, I should take a sick turn—it should be for you, shouldn't it? That is what you think."

"Please stop."

"I am normal."

"I know—"

"I like to fuck women."

"I know that—"

"I fuck a lot of them."

Joseph scoffs. "Well, let's not pretend it's _a lot."_

"Shut up," Beni snaps. "I like women. I have never said anything to make you hope otherwise. Your mind is sick. I would never want you. Because I am normal, and normal men do not want other men. We want—"

"Women, _I know,"_ Joseph says. Bristling. Voice tightening. A kind of hiss, "And—and do you, Beni? Like women? Do you? I never would have guessed from how much time and detail you spend confessing your few, sad exploits. And you tell me all of this—why? To remind me that you—you do, like women? I got it. B-but by all means, keep telling me, like you can convince me it's even gratifying. Like it's not painfully obvious that you're just a sad, pathetic man trying to feel like someone gives even half the damn that I do for you. You think if you're rich, someone will love you? Well they won't, Beni. Not really. If they don't love you like this, they're not going to love you with money. This, what we do, right here, confession—absolution— _this?_ This is love. And I'm really, really sorry that I'm not the person you want to love you, but honestly, I'm not convinced it would make a difference. If I was a real...leggy...blonde—or—whatever it is you like, i-i-in a woman—even then, I don't think it would matter. Because it's not enough for someone to love you, Beni. You've got to love them back to have any kind of joy. Otherwise, no matter what, you are _always_ going to be miserable and alone."

It's quiet. Tense and mean and _so_ quiet. Beni's holding onto a breath he can't seem to let go of, heart crash-pounding, dizzy between his ears. He has a revolver in his waistband that he'd use if his fists weren't shaking so hard, so tight around his rosary that the string snaps. Beads flood his hands.

"I never expected you to feel the same," Joseph says, softer now. "Or—or—or—or want me back. I guess I just expected a little more grace since I am the only person in the world who really cares for you."

Beni stands. Stuffs his broken rosary in his pocket and glares at the screen. _"You_ want grace? I could have told every person who walked into this church what you really are. I could have come to your house, _as your friend,_ and slit your throat while you slept. That is my grace to you, eh? You're welcome. Now start praying, since you are not one of those _cold, distant_ priests. Start praying, since you're so sure you are the only one who will. I want to make it back from the City of the Dead alive."

 **end.**


End file.
